A Wonderful Thing
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: In September 1940, Sherlock Holmes is sent off to war. On the 14th, he sends his first letter of many to Molly Hooper. The two soon find that, through the art of letter writing, they can say things that they could never do so before. (Written in epistolary form; cover art by flavialikestodraw.)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**__ This series was inspired by the appearance of Benedict Cumberbatch and Louise Brealey at the Letters Live Festival this year, where they did a reading of a series of WW2 love letters. The title also comes from that same appearance; it comes from a quote from a letter read out by Ben C. I may or may not add to it in time, but I cannot promise anything. For the time being however, this story is complete._

* * *

Dear Molly,

The journey towards the front has been arduous, at best. The other men have been singing Vera Lynn's "We'll Meet Again" almost non-stop since our company's departure. John has joined in once or twice with them; he claimed it was to boost morale, but I doubt it. I've caught him looking at his picture of Mary once or twice.

I find myself thinking of you. I find myself thinking of the departure we made to one another. I admit that your embrace was rather sudden, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the sentiment behind it. I've never truly been one for the act, if I'm honest, but right now, as I write this letter in this tent with aircraft going over every day, and bombs being dropped and guns going off, I find myself thinking back to your kiss; to your mouth on mine. I find myself… rather glad for the memory, Molly. I thank you for that memory.

My only regret is how I acted. I'm guessing I looked rather shocked? And perhaps bewildered. I'll admit to that; you're a bewildering person, Molly, after all. However, bewilderment doesn't mean hatred. And I could never hate you—you're one of those people I suppose; entirely impossible to hate or even loathe, just the slightest bit. There are people like that all over the world—I suppose I'll meet a few of them during my time here—but you perhaps are the most important of all of them. Always have been, really. (Why I should only realise that now is ludicrous and makes me curse any and every deity under my breath.)

There are whispers that our company should be allowed leave around Christmas time. Another thing to do with sentiment I assume; perhaps if I pull some strings with my brother, I could make those whispers into a reality. I'll certainly try, even though it means actually writing to him. Dear Lord. That will, most certainly, be a painful experience.

The reason for why I wish to come home—even for a short while—must be obvious, especially to you, and especially now. I wish to atone for my behaviour, Molly. I wish to show you the truth: you are, have been and always will be my friend, my Molly and most importantly, my pathologist. Perhaps you will transform into something else, something more, upon my return — but that's a hope on my part. Awfully sentimental really, but the whole act of letter writing is an act of sentiment in itself, so I suppose I was doomed from the moment I put the pen to paper. Still, I do speak the truth, so I doubt I'll get into too much trouble for being sentimental or heaven forbid, affectionate. John will tease me of course; as will Geoff Greg. (Sorry for the error there—he spotted me writing and forced me to correct myself. I wonder if he'll ever work out I do it to tease him. I very much doubt it.)

But it is true, Molly. When I write these words, they are as true in my mind as they are on the paper. That you are, and always will be, my Molly? It is the truth.

It is. And it shall remain so.

Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sent 21 September 1940._

Dear Sherlock,

I… I don't quite know what to say. Your letter has thrown me, and I'm not quite sure if I'll get over it for a long while yet. I think I must have read your words almost a hundred times already—the ink has already begun to fade. I'll try and savour it a little more, but it is so difficult. Reading your words is like hearing your voice—and you know how much I love your voice. Mary spotted me reading it on the bus into work this morning, and she said nothing. Only smiled, in that way of hers. She understands I think; how hard it is for us, to know that you are there, fighting for us, and yet your only reward is the promise of a brief return home and these letters. I think that's why I'm so hesitant in what I write to you. Letter writing is a luxury, and I can't—don't want to—waste it.

I'm sorry that your journey has been arduous—though I did tell Mary of your frustration with Vera Lynn; she laughed. I'm afraid to say that I did too! Your disdain for popular culture has always amused me, Sherlock. But in a good way—it's, well, it's sort of refreshing. (I have to admit, I'm getting a little tired of Vera Lynn too—they keep playing her on the radio.)

I think of you as well. It's part of why I was so glad to receive your letter. But I still feel I should apologise, if only briefly. My embrace was sudden, you're right; but that's only because the urge to do it was so sudden. I could not simply leave you with just a wave goodbye, now could I? And you did look rather shocked, yes. For a moment, I did fear you hated me, but your eyes were far too expressive. (They always have been.) Did you know that dilation of pupils can mean attraction? It's a small piece of trivia I once learned from a colleague of mine. I could barely see the blue of your eyes when you looked at me on departure day. It's why I felt such an urge to kiss you. You'd given me hope; I couldn't stand back and not return the favour. So to know that you are thankful for that memory… it makes me happy. Gives me a certain kind of relief, really.

If you are to come back for Christmas, confirm it for me quickly. It will be a pain, admittedly, to know I have to wait three more months to see you, but it is a lesser pain than, well, the other option. Though writing to your brother! I've sent some chocolate to you; perhaps that will be a crumb of encouragement for you. I don't know. I hope it will.

Now I must reply to the portion of your letter that I have re-read the most. Is it silly of me to confess just how much your words have moved me? Most likely, but I'll do so anyway. You made me cry, you silly man. This really wasn't fair of you, especially considering how I was on the bus at the time! One young girl even asked me if I was okay! And you know me—I'm usually so good at keeping quiet and unnoticeable. Trust you to make people notice me.

Yet I am rambling, and rambling about nothing. I should stop that. But I don't particularly want to, not really. The longer I write, the more I am talking to you. I like talking to you, Sherlock. I like listening to you. I like everything about you. Even when you insist on being a total and utter arse, I like you. I like how your honesty, where it wounds me, heals too. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but it does. Hopefully, my honesty will heal you too. And if I can't be honest now, when will I have another chance?

I long to be more than a friend to you, Sherlock. I long to be everything you need me to be. Will you let me?

Your pathologist,

Molly Hooper.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sent 28 September 1940._

Dear Molly,

So I've done it—I've written to my brother. His reply was as swift as I expected it would be, but lengthier too. It seems he has 'got wind' of the development of our relationship, Molly and is thoroughly enjoying himself teasing me about it. Such an insufferable man. I know that I've said it many a time before, but he is a rubbish big brother. Yet strings have been pulled, and Mycroft's letter serves as proof that I shall be with you, in London, in Baker Street, in three months' time. It may be a small sliver of hope for you, but as you say, letter writing is a luxury, even though you wouldn't think it, with the speed with which John writes his letters to Mary and the reams of paper he uses; I sneaked a look at one of them. The man writes poetry to her, Molly. _Poetry._ If I ever make one request to you Molly, during this time, it would be to never ask me to write you poetry. I would struggle, and you would laugh and neither of us would be fully satisfied.

Yet I've strayed from the point. What I was trying to say was that letter writing, if you think about it, is both a freeing and a constricting thing. Freeing because it allows me to speak to you; constricting because despite my best efforts, I doubt I could quantify the magnitude of the hope and the strength the knowledge of seeing you has given me. Christ, but that's sentimental. I'm almost embarrassed that I managed to write that—but that's what makes the act of letter writing such a luxury. It allows the both of us to say things we wouldn't usually say. For instance, I'm sure you would never have told me that I managed to make you cry. You're far too proud, far too protective of me, to do so. Just as I am too protective of you to tell you how worried I am about you. For I am worried, Molly. I worry about how long this war will go on for. Every time I step outside of this hovel (they dare to call it shelter), I worry. We all worry. We worry for ourselves, for our friends, for our families. Admittedly, I don't much worry about Mycroft—he can protect himself—but I do worry about you. I worry about you because you matter, Molly. You count. Not many people in my company do, but you do. You always have, really.

I'm glad though, to know of your growing exhaustion for Vera Lynn. It's nice to have a companion in my opinion; that's something I seldom have. Even if I do, they're usually ten steps behind. In technical terms of course, she's more than competent, but once you've listened to several mangled versions of We'll Meet Again and The White Cliffs of Dover by various troops of soldiers, all with tears in their eyes as they wave goodbye to their loved ones, you'll no doubt understand my disinterest.

That isn't, however, to say that I completely hate _all_ types of popular culture. Have I ever told you that I love to dance? It's probably a surprise, considering how sullen I usually am at whatever gathering I've attended in the past, but I always have loved dancing. Sadly, I have never had the chance. Still, I live in hope. Perhaps… perhaps the right case will come along, one day. Of course, dancing is an entirely pointless activity if you don't have the right partner. That's not sentiment, I should clarify—that's logic. Two dancers must have the same rhythm; the same knowledge. They must be able to read one another. Otherwise it will all fall apart. And you've always read me extremely well, Molly. I like that about you. At first, I was… unnerved that you saw me so quickly, and so easily. It made me wonder if others saw me in the way you did; if everything I had tried to do and tried to be had failed spectacularly. In fact, I was predisposed to dislike you because of it. Yet you were too skilful in your work, and too happy in your demeanour for me to ever dislike you.

Sometimes, in the quieter moments here, I think back on my behaviour to you. I realise how abdominal I've been to you at times, and how cutting my remarks have been. Then I think of how quiet and strong and kind you have been, even in the face of all of that, and I find myself unutterably grateful towards you. Annoyed too, because I know I can never really atone for being so cruel.

But you mustn't apologise for rambling. (Arguably, I've indulged in a fair bit of rambling in this very letter.) While it's true that I do zone most people out when they are not succinct or to the point, it is rather unfairly that I find I cannot zone you out. Everything you say—everything you write—holds a certain weight, Molly. Perhaps it's because you are so aware of the limitations in letter writing, or perhaps it's because what you have to say is from the heart. You speak, you write, with instinct. Instinct is something I can, and do, listen to.

So please Molly, continue talking. I will listen.

Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

_From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 5 October 1940._

Dearest Sherlock,

(This letter will have to be short, as I'm writing it while holed up in an Underground station, and there is little to no light in here, so forgive any errors I might make.)

I doubt it would surprise you if I admitted the shock your letter has brought me. Shock, and surprise—though I'm sure those two things are interchangeable—and well, delight. In fact, I think I yelped when I opened up the envelope, scanned your words and saw the news. I've relayed it to practically everyone; I even told the postal officer! As soon as I met Mary on the bus, I told her. She gasped, and as is her way, demanded to read the letter to see if I wasn't lying. I tried to refuse, but you know Mary; she's an intimidating woman when she wishes to be. I did only let her read the first paragraph though. The rest of your words are, after all, private, and only to be shared between us. I pretty much told Mary that. She seems to understand, especially in such a time as this.

Everyone else though—everyone else simply marvelled at the news when I told them! Especially Mrs Hudson. After receiving your letter, I zipped straight over to Baker Street and told her. She almost fainted! She told me she was "just being silly", but I'm pretty sure it was just the overwhelming sense of relief that had her so affected. I know because I was rather wobbly-legged when I first read your letter. She's already organising your welcome home party! I told her it wasn't for another three months, but she's still requested I ask you what flavour sandwiches you'd prefer for the buffet (yes, she's planning a buffet—I'll try to rein her in, but you know how difficult that can be). Sally remained perfectly calm, blessed woman that she is. I know you and her don't always see eye to eye, but I have to say, her calmness and her strength does help me bolster my own, especially when I'm feeling down after listening to the radio.

In fact, I've been listening to the radio pretty much non-stop lately (accounts for my tiring of Vera Lynn I suppose) and although there's been no mention of your company, it still hurts my heart to know of just how many people are suffering and how many fatalities have come because of this war—on both sides.

It also hurts to hear people speak of Germany in such violent, awful ways. I fear Adolf Hitler and the Nazis as much as anybody, but if one takes away the nationalities—German, British, Italian, Japanese—then all you are left with is death, not just of soldiers, but of civilians too. Everyone in the world is losing someone special to them; someone they love and have promised to cherish.

Oh dear. That's not very cheerful is it? No, not at all. And I promised myself I would be! You're already in the trenches—you don't want me waxing lyrical about death and identity and nationality, now do you? To tell the truth, I think I blame the radio. They keep speaking of the Blitz, and which cities are the next targets of the bombs. I honestly can't believe it sometimes. These air raids have been going on for months now, and still they continue. Will Hitler never be satisfied? I can't help but wonder what exactly he hopes to achieve. The world? Is _that_ what he wants? Well, if he wants the world, then he can have it, and clean up the mess he's made.

Molly.


	5. Chapter 5

_From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 6 October 1940._

Dear Sherlock,

Please forgive me...

I was being a fool

Yesterday, I wasn't in my right mind.

I fear I was writing my previous letter at entirely the wrong moment. Remind me never to write a letter while in an Underground Station! Something about the cold does something to me. I hope my melancholy mood did not upset you. After all, as you said, you worry about me. Well, I hope this will ease your worries a little: the latest air raid hasn't caused that much damage. They only managed a few houses this time around, and luckily, none of the houses were neither near mine nor Mary's, so we're safe. Sally's okay too; there was an air raid near her house, but there was only minor damage. The one big target is St. Paul's Cathedral—something to do with symbols of hope, if the radio is anything to go by. (Ironic, because I don't even attend church.)

They've stopped playing Vera Lynn, at last. Well, I say they've stopped playing her… they just don't play her as much as they used to. They tend to play instrumentals now, slow trumpet solos. It's probably meant to evoke some sort of wistfulness in us; make us dream of a time when we weren't at war and didn't have to scrimp and save for everything and have our food dictated to us via a rationing book. That's probably why Mrs Hudson is so busy preparing for your arrival. If she's going to put on a celebration, she needs to know what to save and what to eat. The news of your visit has quickly spread though—and now everyone is more than willing to help Mrs Hudson with her plans.

Oh, but I still feel utterly horrible for sending you that letter! I must have terrified the wits out of you, Sherlock! Do you accept my apology? I am so sorry. You write such beautiful words in your letters, and I reply with whining. I was an utter beast to send that to you, especially when you're so busy worrying and trying to protect not just me, but the whole country.

Please, forget my previous letter and know that I am safe and well and looking forward to your return.

Always yours,

Molly.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note:** Nope, this fic isn't dead. Just slow going, because life stuff. Thanks to all who have been so kind and left reviews and followed and favourited. I promise, big things are planned for this fic, but they are long term plans which will take a while to come into fruition. Again, because of life stuff._

* * *

_From: Sherlock Holmes, to Molly Hooper, sent 14 October 1940._

Dear Molly,

When I sat down to write this letter, I sought to comfort you. Then, out of the blue, Lestrade walks in with another letter from you, imploring me to forget your words. So, understandably, I'm a little confused (consider that a privilege as I rarely am), because in asking me to forget your words, you yourself forget one, crucial point: I don't _want_ to.

You've heard me – and John – talk about my mind palace. People tend to have a misconception about it. They assume I remember everything. That isn't necessarily true. I can remember anything, but I don't remember everything. No-one can. What separates my memory from others is that I can recognise what is important and what isn't. Every section of my memories and my knowledge has its own room. Science, English, Mathematics, childhood, etc. have their own place. When I'm in need of the memories or knowledge contained within them, I make my way down the corridors and slip inside and… browse, for want of a better word, until I find what I need. Sometimes, it takes me an hour. Sometimes, it takes me a few minutes. The point is that I only keep what is important. Surely that must say something to you?

As the days go by, news trickles through the ranks of Germans attacking RAF bombers. They're putting up a good offensive; I'll have to give them that. Even Major Barrymore—he's the man who leads the unit and he's perhaps the most stubborn man I've come across in this war—has admitted as much. It hasn't stopped him harping on about King and Country and our duty to the girls and boys back home. I think he genuinely believes what pours out of his mouth as well. Have you ever met that sort of person, Molly? One who spouts pure propaganda, and believes every single word? I hope you haven't, and I hope you never do. They're utterly insufferable and entirely intolerable. (To be honest, his head would probably explode if he ever met you, Molly, with your sensibleness and level-headed views. Someone who considers the other person's point of view? Surely there can't be such a thing!)

I think even Lestrade—who is perhaps the most patriotic of the lot of us—is getting tired of Barrymore's constant pep talking. I swear I heard him mutter something about punching the man a few days ago, though he swears blind he didn't.

But tell Mrs Hudson, from me, that her efforts for my return are well appreciated. Personally, I do feel tempted to write to her and tell her that a celebration isn't exactly necessary—I am only going to be there for three weeks after all, it's not even a month—but I have a feeling that any protestations I make will be ignored and brushed off as "silly". A lot of things are silly according to that woman; myself especially.

And I'm glad you are safe Molly. I doubt I could describe just how glad without cocking it up, somehow. I have a knack for cocking things up, as you well know. So I'll say that I'm glad, and leave it at that.

I look forward to Christmas with every passing day.

Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

_From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 21 October 1940._

Dearest Sherlock,

When I first met you, you did not seem to be the type to provide comfort. You were thrilling and you intrigued me, but you never struck me as the... reassuring type, let me say. I suppose it is ironic, or at the very least a twist of fate, that simply reading your words comforts me in hundreds of ways. I suppose that's because, as I mentioned before, I hear your voice when I read them. But I suppose it's something much more than that. In fact, I know there's much more. You see, it's not just a matter of having a sound running through my mind. There's so much to feel, not just hear, in your words. Reading your letters is like having you here, beside me, holding my hand and talking to me. (And you thought you were sentimental!)

You spoke, in your first letter, of my kissing you being a memory that you hold onto. I realise now that, in my reply, I never told you that I have a memory of you which, especially now, I find I never want to forget. It's from a couple of years ago, back when I was still engaged. Do you remember that? Tom was a good soul. I'm sure he's still a good soul, to some other girl, somewhere. I've never told you, but I can now. I did see the resemblance between the two of you. I wouldn't be surprised if the resemblance was why my friends set me up with him in the first place. Of course, there's a difference between seeing and registering something. You can see a bird sitting on a tree and enjoy its company very much, but only register the colours of its plumage or its size until it flies away. Not that I'm comparing you or Tom to a bird. All I'm saying is that I only really registered the resemblance until you two met, at John and Mary's engagement party. Unfortunately, after that, I couldn't get rid of it. I think Tom noticed. I didn't talk to him as much; I ended up being more focused on the dog than him. It was only a matter of time before we broke apart. I should make it clear though, that I don't blame you. I know how easily you shoulder the blame Sherlock, but Tom was my mistake and not yours. Anyway, he wasn't that big of a mistake. He can't have been. He led us to here, didn't he? And no-one can be so bad if they lead two people towards one another.

And, as ever, I've strayed completely from the main point. This memory of mine; it was when I was in St. Bart's, working away in the lab. It had been an awful day. First, the bus was late and I'd had to walk into work. Second, I'd discovered that Radcliffe—as always—hadn't bothered to complete his paperwork, which meant I had to do it for him and was then late starting my own work as a result. Then Stamford came in, asking me to process a large set of blood results and he was so kind and sweet and apologetic about it, I couldn't really say no. Then you came in, and told me you were working on a case with John and demanded my help. Then, when I said no, you did that puppy-eye thing you used to believe still worked on me. (I know I've told you this before, but just because it works once, does not mean it works every time!) The blood results were just about to finish processing, so I told you to wait for a moment. But you kept pressing, and pressing, and that was it. I burst into tears, right there and then. Funny really, how the body and the mind reacts to things. In some situations, I am a terrible crier. I cry at sad films, sad music, and even sad books! In others, I'm fine. I cope with stress well. You, that day, were simply the straw that broke the camel's back.

It happens to all of us, I'm sure. Things just pile up and up and up, one right after the other, until you have to express your frustration somehow. Sometimes, that frustration comes out in tears. What sticks in my mind, however, is the way you reacted. You sat me down, crouched in front of me and held my hands. You didn't say a word, save for the occasional reassurance whenever I apologised for crying or shocking you or whatever I was saying, I can barely remember what was coming out of my mouth at that point. Your eyes, I remember those. You weren't looking at me with any amusement or malice. Nor did you look at me with any sense of frustration or boredom. It was simply a look of patience, a look that told me "take your time". Perhaps you'd been faced with someone breaking down before? Or perhaps you listened to instinct? That's the memory I have anyhow, of you. And it makes every word I read of yours so much sweeter.

In regards to Mrs Hudson, I told her that you're glad for her efforts, just as you asked. She, surprisingly, did not brush the remark off as "silly" but told me to thank you and sat me down with a cup of tea. She knows, I think. How much of a burden it is on the both of us. She possesses an incredible sense of empathy, that woman—even if she doesn't quite understand the situation, she knows exactly what people feel. I'm so grateful to her for that, especially now. For though I do hear your voice, and it does comfort me, I can't help but miss you. I've even got the date of your return circled in my calendar. (Is that pathetic or hopeful? I can't tell.)

I also direct my greatest sympathies to you, Lestrade, John and every man in your company for having to deal with Major Barrymore. He sounds like one of those people they constantly have on the radio. Going on about King and Country and the good of war. Mary's very funny whenever she hears them. She just sings loudly until they go away again. Thankfully, I haven't personally encountered any of those sorts of people, but with things being the way they are, I'm sure it's only a matter of time unfortunately. Oh well. At least I know how to cope with them when they do pop up. I'll just nod, smile, say I'm currently very busy and then run away as fast as possible.

I've also found the reason for why my last few letters have been so gloomy. Sitting here, listening to the radio and going back and forth to work, or sitting in the bomb shelters in the cold while having no clue what's going on, I can't help but feel, well… slightly useless. There you are, fighting for us, and here I am, moaning on about bloody Vera Lynn. It hardly seems fair. It isn't fair, as a matter of fact. Don't misunderstand me; I do adore my job at St. Bart's. How can I not? It's always intriguing and fun and some of the bodies that come through for autopsy are impossible to believe, but I want to contribute. I want to _do_ something. I'm getting rather sick of twiddling my thumbs and feeling worried all the time.

But, on a lighter note (see, I am cheerful!) I'm going to say thank you, for explaining your mind palace to me. I never realised or thought about the process of making and maintaining a mind palace, to be honest. I suppose, if I were going to 'compare' my mind to a structure of some kind, I'd say that I've got more of a mind garden. It's filled with all sorts of things that spring and bloom up out of nowhere. The silly things, the passing amusements, they wilt and fade away very quickly. The significant things though. They stay. They endure. And you've remained in my mind for quite a while, Mr Holmes.

Surely that says something to _you_?

Always yours,

Molly.


	8. Chapter 8

_From: Sherlock Holmes, to Molly Hooper, sent 28 October 1940._

* * *

Dear Molly,

Autumn has most certainly arrived to the front. It's not felt so much in the days, as we're all too busy completing our own tasks, but at night, when we're huddled in some part of the trench, that's when it bites. It's so much more savage here, the cold. The wind whistles endlessly, and the rain is so much that one can barely see through it half the time. The only thing that keeps me going, I'll admit, is you—or rather, the thought of you. I think about not just your mouth on mine, but your eyes, your body. Your humour too, and your intelligence. That's why, I think, I cherish every letter I receive from you. Like you, I feel you there with me, sat beside me and whispering your words low into my ear. I don't know why I visualise you in that particular way. Maybe because it's so bitterly cold here, and your warmth is something else I yearn for. (Christmas, where the _hell_ are you?)

I do hear the other men though talk of their girls 'back home' in the most excruciating way. One soul went on about the colour of his wife's eyes for about half an hour. I believe, by the end of it, he was comparing them to leeks. Obviously, his previous occupation was not that of a poet. My rough guess would be that he was a boxer, mostly by his nose and finger, both of which were previously broken in a bout of some sort.

I can't exactly blame them of course; it's the knowledge of knowing someone is there, waiting for you and supporting you that gets us all through. I can't—don't want to—imagine how I would've fared here if I didn't have your letters here with me to read, over and over again. John, like me, tends to keep his fawning confined to his letters but he still mentions Mary, from time to time. Lestrade hasn't mentioned anyone as of yet, but I can tell there's someone he thinks of. Rather interesting, that. When you're in love with someone, it somehow becomes so much easier to tell when others are in love too. For I am in love with you, Molly. I haven't said it before, only inferred it, but I'm saying it now. I love you. I am in love with you, and I'm rather sure I will continue to be in love with you. How could I not be? Useless for me to even try and forget you.

Actually, that leads me to confess something. Something that will probably bring you offence, but I suppose we can chalk it up with all the other times I've been what John would term an "arse". In the past, I _have_ tried to forget you. I've tried to erase all existence of you, tried to… leave you behind, really. I remember the last time I realised I had to do just that.

I was working on a case. You might remember it; it was a butler, accused of not only murder of his master, but abduction of his master's wife. It turned out that the butler had nothing to do with the murder at all, and hadn't actually abducted the master's wife, but was enjoying a rather nice time holidaying with her in the South of France. The pair of them had been so lost in one another that they didn't know of her husband's death until the French police had stormed into their hotel room and frogmarched him out of their bed. Not one of my most interesting cases, devoid of the usual twists and turns, but definitely one of the more entertaining ones.

There was one day, during that case, when I came into St. Bart's. I immediately went into the morgue to seek you out and demand the body to inspect. Then I'm told by Stamford that you'd just got into work and was, at that point, in the locker room. In those days, I had much less respect for privacy—though I think the shoe you threw at my head as I walked inside helped me learn my lesson. And well, um, seeing you there, even briefly, stunned me slightly. (Thank God Lestrade has given up his habit of reading over my shoulder while I write.) I waited for you outside, and when you came out, dressed and ready to go, you were chipper as ever as we strode into the morgue, chattering and talking, but I couldn't think of a word to say.

You had a pin in your hair. I remember that. I've never had too much of a predilection for remembering women's accessories (unless it was relevant to a case) but I remember that. A pink pin, with silver lined against the edges. Tucked neatly into the side of your hair, pinning it back. It's strange, what details my mind picks up about you. With other people, the details fall into place, like some kind of puzzle. It's the same with you but also… not the same? The details do, as I said, fall into place, but it's always growing. You're never fixed—you are never just one set of images. I suppose that's why forgetting you has always, always been impossible.

That pin was what made me decide that I had to get rid of you. You were distracting me, I told myself, putting me off. So I sat down in Baker Street that evening, violin in hand and delved into my mind palace. Usually, deleting something is an easy process. I go down into my mind palace, stroll along the corridors, open and close a few doors, eventually find what I'm looking for and then delete it, and there. Gone.

You though. You kept coming back, thankfully. As soon as I believed I'd forgotten you, I'd see you there with your sweet smile and that same pink pin. It took me a long time to realise the entirely obvious. You were, you are, too important for me to forget.

Significantly yours,

Sherlock.

P.S. Tell Mrs Hudson thank you, from me.

P.P.S. Having the date of my return circled in your calendar is not pathetic, Molly. After all, I have it marked down in my journal.


	9. Chapter 9

_From: Molly Hooper, to Sherlock Holmes, sent 4 November 1940._

Dearest Sherlock,

Bonfire Night is tomorrow, and though I've never really held much care for the thing, I think it'll be nice to see the sky lit up with colour and sparkles and fizz-bangs and whatever other word you can think of to describe a firework. We all need a bit of a spark, now and then. I'm sure it won't come as a surprise for you to know that I'm looking forward to Christmas so much more. It's practically all I can think of. Day after day—Christmas, Christmas, Christmas! There's nothing in the shops as of yet that I can buy for you on your return (do you even want a gift?) but I'm constantly thinking about it, what with helping Mrs Hudson with her own preparations for her party. She's invited practically everyone you know! And she's eating incredibly frugally, saving every scrap she can. (I keep attempting to sneak portions of my own rations to her, but she always presents them back to me, telling me I must've forgotten it on my last visit to her. She's too wily for her own good, but I will keep trying.)

Then, when I've gone home and I'm away from Baker Street and alone in my flat and in my bed, I imagine what it's going to be like. Us, together. The Molly Hooper of years past is jumping for joy inside my head, running around and screaming happily. Every letter you and I send is one stepping stone closer and God, I haven't felt like this in such a long time, having this excitement bubble away in the pit of my stomach, an excitement that I can barely contain.

It's going to be so lovely, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson's party. Everyone is going to be so happy to see you. And questions will be asked of you, you must be prepared for that. Mary will probably ask you for updates on John. She's so happy for me, for us, but she is (rather inevitably) envious too. After all, I'm getting three weeks with you, the man I love; meanwhile John, her husband, is still sitting there at the front. Are you sure there's nothing you can do? That Mycroft can do? Maybe the strings can be pulled a little harder? I know that it is short notice and that it's a lot to ask, but Mary is so unhappy, even if she tries anything to hide it. It's her way.

I will tell you though, that the funniest thing happened to me this morning. I was woke up and went downstairs to check my post when I discovered a series of papers, accompanied by an official looking letter asking me to write down on the papers what sector of the war effort I would like to work in. I won't go into full details now, but I'll just say that I'm to go to Coventry and start work in one of the munitions factories in a couple of weeks. Mary received some too. She's going down to work in the drawing office. You wouldn't have had something to do with that, would you? No, surely not. I'll put it down as a well-timed coincidence! I'm sure the factory work will be hard, very hard indeed, but I cut up bodies for a living. I will cope.

But… oh. I'm sitting down here, in the kitchen, with pen to paper, and I think I've run out of words. I can't think of a single one to write to you. Instead I just keep re-reading your words. That's the trouble. Part of me thinks they'll disappear and fade away one day, leaving them lost forever. Sometimes I feel like I'll end up with only sheets of paper, your words gone from this world, from me. I want to preserve them, to frame them, but then I'm gripped by this stupid fear that I won't be able to touch them—I won't be able to believe that in some way, some stupid way, we're reaching out to each other. I'm giddy, sad, listless, energetic, hopeful, joyful and terrified all at once! And yet, I honestly don't think I would want to be anything else.

For I love you too Sherlock. And I feel it; I feel that love, fresh and new with every day that passes between now and your return. I know it's only for three weeks and that's barely any time at all but oh gosh! You are coming home. You're coming back to me.

You, however, you must put your mind at ease. Your memory has caused me no offence whatsoever. I still remember that pin. Sadly, I threw it away. I would not have done so if I'd known it had led to me gaining a permanent place in your mind palace! I'll have to see if I can buy a similar one, or one just as memorable. Though, thinking back, I do remember your silence. I thought it was because you were angry with me for throwing my shoe at your head. (I never did apologise for that, did I? Well, I am sorry for it; but at least it helped you learn not to invade the locker room!) So I chattered about nothing, just babbled, as I always do when I'm confronted with an awkward situation. If such a situation goes on for long enough, I find myself saying the silliest things imaginable. It's a miracle people still interact with me on a daily basis.

Though I am sorry you have to endure so much of the cold at the front. If it helps, it is incredibly cold back home too. I have to wear two scarves instead of the usual one, as well as the usual raincoat. So when I popped into Baker Street to visit Mrs Hudson, and she saw me swathed in scarves and coat (along with my gloves) she understandably burst into laughter. It was when she'd calmed that she declared she would have to knit me a nice thick winter scarf. It'll take her a few weeks, she said, so until then I'm stuck with the two scarves but again, I marvel at her kindness. Everyone's so much kinder these days. There's still the occasional person who will barge into a queue or two, and there's still the grumpy sod who mutters irritably about the ways of the world when you take a little too long paying at the till of the shop but overall everyone is kinder. Or maybe I'm noticing it more. It is difficult in life after all, when everyone's so busy and rushing (myself included), to notice little acts of kindness. But, well—it is so lovely when we do.

Impossibly yours,

Molly.


	10. Chapter 10

_From: Sherlock Holmes, to Molly Hooper, 11 November 1940._

Molly,

News has come through today that the unit that was aiming to move towards Taranto has come under attack from Italian aircraft. Near Malta, so they say. I can't really describe how it feels to have such news come through. On one hand, there's a palpable sense of relief that we're making some sort of progress, that at least one of the units is able to move on. On the other, I know that soon our unit will be told to march on, move on, make progress; and I'll be one step closer to you – to my return – but, in geographical terms, it feels like I'm a thousand more steps away from Baker Street, Mrs Hudson's determination, Mary, John, everyone.

Well, not a thousand. I'm sure that even the best trained of soldiers couldn't walk a thousand steps in a day. Perhaps over a period of time, they could. Tell the truth, I'm so exhausted, I can't calculate it. Everyone's exhausted now. That fervour of going to war, and being one of Britain's brave boys, has worn off. What keeps them going now is the idea of victory. It's not "We'll Meet Again" that they sing or hum now, but "White Cliffs of Dover".

Christmas is what keeps me going. I don't want a gift, nor do I need one, so save the expense. I am terrible to buy gifts for, as I think I've proved before now, and I'm a terrible gift buyer on top of that. Overall, Christmas and I haven't really got in the past. What was it John once described me as? Ah yes, Scrooge. He just reminded me as such. (Seems he's picked up Lestrade's annoying habit of reading over my shoulder.) This year, I think Christmas may be able to tolerate me though. And I might be able to tolerate it back. The snow, the carols, and the endless and relentless cheeriness of others – but I have a feeling that I could cope with it this year...

As to your papers coming through in your post, I confess I don't have a clue who exactly could be involved with that. (If it pleases you to know, John just snorted and rolled his eyes beside me.) But I know that you'll be good at whatever it is they assign you to do. I have heard that work in the munitions factory can be awfully hard – in one of his rare letters, my brother mentioned as such – and that the hours are long, but you've coped with worse. If you can work with me and tolerate me for as long as you have, then the munitions factory will be easy.

It amazes me, actually, that a woman like you, a woman who bears her heart with pride and can make me – me! – speechless, should think she could ever run out of words. Molly, did I not tell you before? I treasure every word you write in your letters. I treasure them as much as (I assume) you treasure mine. I feel your fear, that fear of loss. I've never had the opportunity to have such warmth and kindness so near me, ready at any moment for me to pluck out of my kitbag and read at my leisure, during the quiet moments here. I keep the majority in one of the front pockets and some in the kitbag itself – space is a luxury here, and it is a struggle to fit every letter you write into the damn thing, but luckily paper is foldable. When I return, you'll find your words extremely crumpled and faded, sorry about that. I can't cherish them as you do. Like there's a difference between seeing and registering something, I believe there's a difference between treasuring a possession and cherishing it. It's probably something to do with the use of language. "Treasure" is a lyrical word; "cherish", though it carries as much sentiment, is the more visceral of the two, I find. "Cherish" invokes romantic ideas of clutching something to one's chest, never wanting to let go. I've not quite reached that level of romance. That level comes hand in hand with poetry, and as you know, I am not a man who is gifted in that area. Nor comfortable.

I am comfortable in saying that I love you. And that I smile, even laugh, when I read about how much you love me. It's not a thing that I've ever fully involved myself in. I've experienced it, as you have also, but I've never been one to jump in feet first and declare wholeheartedly my feelings without shame or hesitation. I've stood at the precipice, if one can call it that, but I've backed away at the last moment and ended up treating it like it was nothing but a concept, breaking it into down into mere semantics and chemicals in some attempt at understanding the thing. The circumstance dictated that, but I think it's also to do with trust, and whether the feelings you have are reciprocated. After all, there's no use declaring something if there's no-one there beside you to support you. Where would all the politicians and the scientists and the lawyers and the doctors be in this world if they didn't have at least one person agreeing with them? Shouting needlessly at nothing. In that way, I am rather at an advantage, even if I am hundreds of miles away – because I have you. I have your words. I have the promise of Christmas.

In fact – do you want to know something strange? I've always maintained love is a vicious motivator – but I think my experiences here, what I've seen here, necessitates a change to that. The only problem is that I don't know quite what the change should be. It'll come to me in time though. That I'm sure of.

Yours,

P.S. It's stupid, you having to use that flimsy raincoat of yours. Use my Belstaff. Then I shall have a proper reason to claim it back on my return…


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes:** _Finally, an update! This is only a short update, and I can't promise the next update will take less time than this one did, but I hope you enjoy this little chapter anyway._

* * *

_From: Molly Hooper to Sherlock Holmes, 18 November 1940._

Dearest Sherlock,

If it makes you happy to know, you made me cry again. Your words are so potent, you see. However many letters we exchange. They're kind of… Well, they're like a warm fire on a cold winter night. A horrid metaphor I know, but I am not a poet. Neither of us are poets. It is a special creature who can weave words into rhyme, isn't it? As you say, you are not designed to "cherish" things. You analyse things instead. You solve problems, save others. For that, I'm glad. I don't want a man who sighs into my ear about how much he loves me. I don't want a sweetheart. I had that – and I gave it up.

By the way, I picked up your Belstaff from your flat before I went off to work. Mrs Hudson greeted me with her gift of the promised knitted scarf. It's pink, happily. (She knows me!) She persuaded me to sit down to a cup of tea while I was there, and I managed to have a good look at her cupboards when she wasn't looking. She's got a hell of a stockpile now. She'll get into trouble one day because of it! When I told her of your gift of the Belstaff she cooed and insisted I try it on in front of her. It isn't an exact fit (okay, so that's a slight understatement – the hem nearly goes down to my ankles) but I can see why you like it so much! With the coat tails flapping out behind me, I feel very dramatic. Like I can conquer the world.

I am settling in well to work. I can't go into too much detail, sadly, so I'll just say it's hard, the work – I'm rushed off my feet – and it's often difficult to be cheerful but we manage. Jokes, is mostly how we manage, along with stories of how we came to be there. It's during the breaks in shifts that we're able to talk in detail together. There's one girl, Daisy, who is very sweet. She's quite short, like me, but her hair is a shocking blonde. I got quite a surprise when I first saw it as she always covers it with a large headscarf. (She told me she's scared she'll get her hair caught in the machinery.) She came to the munitions factory after her husband went to war. And she's so _young._ Sometimes she looks so lost among all the heavy machinery that we have to use. But then I see her work! So often I look at the work the other girls do, like Daisy, and the gravity of it all, of the work – well, none of us can underestimate it.

All this work makes me remember the last case we took on. Before all of this started. I suppose I'll be wrong on the details, but I remember it was at first about a stolen brooch. John was on his honeymoon. Or, as you made a point of calling it, a 'Sex Holiday'. And with the Holmes &amp; Watson combination on hold for the next few weeks, you enlisted my help. Our search for that brooch sent us pretty much all over London. Down alleyways, across bridges. (Even onto a few roofs!) We trekked and we ran. Eventually we managed to find the brooch and the jewellery smugglers that had stolen it but all throughout – it was exhilarating. Nothing like I expected. And in knowing you, I've come to expect it all and more.

You know, people have called the ways I love others "odd". Not odd _bad_, but apparently I love in an unconventional way? Essentially, I don't shout it from the rooftops. I don't wear a giant smile; I don't wax lyrical for days on end. I keep my emotions tightly wrapped with a laugh and a joke. Maybe a blush. Here or there. But I'm not ashamed of that fact. That is part of me. I am quiet. I do shrink into corners, into the shadows. Loving you has been like that but it's also been so different. I've had years of quashing my feelings, years of hoping they'd fade. That only served to make them grow.

I was honestly content to live with them. I was content to live with those feelings buried away; others have done it, not hard for me to do it. So it is a strange transition to take, the one we've taken, this transition from friendship to love. I am happy, so indescribably happy, to read your words and know that every single one is true; to know that you love me, yet we've been friends for so long. On my worst days, I fear this will be snuffed out when you come home. That we won't know how to express what we've already said, and it'll trickle back to the old routine. Then I read your words from all your letters and I know – somehow – that it won't. Don't ask me how I know. There are some things that can never be explained. Like how Hemingway always seems to attract the most boring people.

Or love. Love is a big thing Sherlock. Treating love as a concept is nothing to be ashamed of. People have spent their whole lives trying to quantify it and make sense of it. Hell, I'm still trying to understand it. Just as soon as I think I do, something happens to change it. To shift my view. You, for instance. You've confused me more than any man ever has.

Come Christmas, you'll have the chance to make up for that, I'm sure.

Yours,

Molly.


	12. Chapter 12

_From: Sherlock Holmes to Molly Hooper, 25 November 1940._

Molly,

We're to move off soon enough – not far but still all the men are busy preparing for it, including myself, so this letter will be short. (Lestrade's already told me off twice for even beginning to write this letter – he's become rather a stickler for time here.) Hopefully however, I'll be able to put across what I need to in few words. Just as it takes skill to put rhyme and rhythm together, it takes skill to be concise. This letter will act as confirmation if I possess those skills.

I have to admit, I find the image of you wearing my Belstaff rather amusing. Pleasing, because I know you're no longer shivering, but also amusing; especially when the image is coupled with a fluffy, pink scarf. It's because you are so small compared to me, Molly. Tiny. Petite. That's not to say that's a bad thing of course—though I'm sure, once we're together again, one or both of us will suffer from terrible aches in the neck—but the size of someone frequently dictates how people act around them. Look at how you thought of Daisy – so young, but in the end, more than capable. (The war has made most of us more than capable.) People must look at you, with your small stature, and think you a delicate creature – a fragile doll that must be cared for and looked after. Idiots, obviously. I mean, I want to look after you, of course I do. But I don't want to treat you like you might break at any moment. I want to treat you like the woman you are; the woman who loves me in spite of my flaws. Do tell Mrs Hudson though to stop stockpiling. I'm sure she's got enough by now and I do want to be the same weight on my departure that I will be on my arrival.

But Molly, I have to confess: your discussion of love made me laugh. With relief I might add. Haven't I proved to you already that I am not a sweetheart, nor a lover? I'm not the type to whisper sweet nothings. I love you Molly Hooper, I freely admit that, but however much the people we know might want to see it, I don't have the predilection to tuck a rose between my teeth and dance the tango. God, can you imagine that? No, I'd much rather keep my emotions private. My desire for you, for your words and your comfort, is something I keep close to me. To others, I show it in glimpses. I don't, as you put it, "wax lyrical" to the other men about it. John can't understand that of course, and neither can Lestrade. They wear their hearts, quite proudly, on their sleeves. John brags about Mary at any chance he can get. I don't think they can really grasp the fact that a private heart can feel things just as much an open heart can. Private hearts simply choose when and how they show those feelings. Us, we show them in our words. When I come back, I very much plan to show them in my actions. I promise you: things will not trickle back to the way they were. How could they?

This does, however, lead me onto another subject. Do not laugh when you read this following sentence, Molly, but well… I've been recently ruminating on the idea of marriage. Between you and me. Forgive me for being presumptuous in your answer but I've already written to my brother, requesting he buy a marriage licence on our behalf. I'd pay anything to see his reaction. Shock wouldn't be able to describe it. Yet, if all goes well, the registry office should be booked for the day of my arrival. I understand if you don't wish to go through with it, completely, as it is a big step. To attach oneself to you for life. It's terrifying.

In fact, when I first thought of proposing (a few weeks back, to be truthful), I abandoned the idea completely. I suppose that's the advantage of being here, in the trenches. In the quiet moments, you get a lot of time to think things over. I thought about what it would be like. Marriage, I mean. If it would actually be more painful to have you waiting back in London, working in the factory, while knowing you were my wife and I was away from you. That's mostly why I bottled it the first time. Then I thought about the life we could build. I won't presume to know how you feel about children and I won't ask now; that is a conversation for when we are face to face. I thought that, perhaps, if we married, we could make a life in Baker Street. In 221b, with Mrs Hudson downstairs and us upstairs. Together, as man and wife. Sharing breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sharing the living room, the books and the chairs. Sharing a bed. I admit that a certain thrill went through me at that last thought. (For I do desire you Molly, immensely. Please, never think I don't.) I thought about waking up every morning and seeing a gold band—though it could also be silver, depends entirely on you—on my finger.

Not too surprisingly, I've not thought much about marriage before. I scoffed at Lestrade's failure and rolled my eyes at John and Mary's success. When you are on the outside of it, it's very easy to treat it with such scorn; to call it an "institution" and deride the people who get caught up in it. These last few weeks have blown that perception completely out of the water. Quite honestly I do still believe people do create too much of a fuss over it when it happens—consequence of not wearing my heart on my sleeve—but I could cope with all that fuss now. If you do say yes, that is.

I just realised I was supposed to make this letter short. Bugger.

Yours,

Sherlock.


End file.
